


Shaken Not Stirred

by kinkshamegame



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Casual Sex, Depression, F/M, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:46:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinkshamegame/pseuds/kinkshamegame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is fine. Clarke is fine. Clarke is fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke leaned over the shitty cracked sink, letting lukewarm water pool in her palms and watching it slip past the gaps of her fingers. Her thumbnail ran deep into her cuticles, scraping insistently. She was aware, distantly, that pain was radiating from her scrubbed-pink fingertips, but she wouldn’t have been able to stop even if she attempted.

 

She brought a wet hand up to scrub at the nape of her neck, around to the soft flesh that led to her ear and down to the sharpness of her collarbone. She hoped to erase the acrid note of fraternity brother stench from her skin, even though she knew it had sunk into her pores by now.

 

* * *

 

“God, I love this bar. Everyone’s always so friendly, the beer is always cheap and ever-flowing.” Jasper slurred happily, leaning heavily onto Clarke’s petite shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Clarkey?” His voice was too sloppy and too loud in her too close ear.

 

She consciously brought her shoulders down and reminded herself to relax her muscles, lest she pull something again. Her black blouse sat loosely on her curves, highlighting her ample chest and small waist, tapering to a close fit at her wrists. Blonde curls fell down her back effortlessly, and her sharp eyeliner brought out the grey in her blue eyes.

 

“Yes, Jasper. It’s a great place.” She agreed merely to soothe the inebriated young man. She ducked out from underneath his scrawny elbows and patted his head. “I’ll be right back, alright? Don’t leave the group.” She gave a stern look to the rest of the table, and they responded in happily intoxicated nods.

 

“Alright, great.” She smiled at them as she walked off to the restroom, ducking into the dark corridor.

 

* * *

 

“1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.” Clarke whispered to herself, wringing her hands roughly as she paced back and forth in the back alley of the bar. She longed to run her fingers through her hair and tug harshly at her locks, or scrape her fingernails too hard against her scalp, but she knew her painstakingly constructed, ‘effortlessly messy,’ curls would not stand up to the assault.

 

Her maroon manicured nails glinted in the alley light, emphasizing her slender shaking fingers. Her brain felt like a fish being carried by a child in a plastic bag after a tacky county fair. Sure to be forgotten in the aftermath of cotton candy and sugar crashes, left to suffocate overnight on a kitchen counter before being thrown away by a moderately remorseful parent. Her heart released drugged, slow beats that thudded painfully in her ears. She felt as if each squeeze of her heart’s muscle sucked all of the blood from each capillary, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes, back into her chest. Her torso couldn’t possibly contain the entirety of her bloodstream, could it?

 

She heard the door behind her swing open with a loud clang and a wanton giggle and turned just in time to see a lithe brunette being pushed against the filthy brick alley’s edge. The man’s clumsy grunt and amorous hands made her stomach curdle, and she slipped back into the bar unnoticed.

 

On her way back to her rambunctiously happy friends, she grabbed a paper cocktail napkin to wipe the blood from her shaking palms, and smiled in greeting.


	2. Chapter 2

Refusing to glance back at the broad figure tangled in dark blue sheets behind her, Clarke washed her hands. Her nose crinkled at the sharply floral scent of the man’s soap, clearly having been bought by a well-intentioned mother or sister. They had probably told him to keep feminine soaps in case a woman came to stay the night. She remembered telling Jasper the same a few months ago, when he was wooing a pretty brunette.

 

She doubted that his mother imagined a tousled, hungover one-night stand of her son’s would be using this little shell-shaped soap. It looked a little broken in, probably from the previous women who had graced this nameless man’s bed. He must have had a name, but she didn’t care to know.

 

She held her keys in her fist while slipping on her panties, careful to not wake him with the quiet jingling. His face was buried in pillows, the same that would forget her scent within a few hours. He would forget too.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy grumbled, reaching a calloused hand up to wipe his face as he walked into the coffee shop. He readjusted the heavy messenger bag that hung on his thick shoulder, filled to the brim with weathered books. He nodded a hello to Miller, and slipped behind the counter.

 

The café, Aurora’s, was Bellamy’s baby. It was built into an old brownstone in a quiet neighborhood of Washington D.C. and had quickly become a local hotspot. Exhausted lobbyists and commuters flooded his little homestead every morning, and hardworking college students from neighboring Ark University kept his stools occupied throughout the afternoon. He kept his place open until midnight, preferring to take the late shift and read while caffeinating the stragglers who truly needed it.

 

As he cleaned the large wooden countertop, he couldn’t help but remember the beginnings of this house. His years of running up and down the stairs, of waiting for his mother to come home from her late shifts, and of leaning out the window to keep the smell of weed from filling his tiny bedroom. He was 19 when his mother passed, leaving him possession of the run-down home and a rebellious 14 year old.

 

In order to support his sister, Bellamy had dropped out of college and gotten a job in construction. He had barely been able to afford tuition before, even with scholarships and student loans, so the decision was easy to make. He met Nathan Miller while on a work site near the National Mall, and they had been friends ever since. Years passed, and he found himself an empty-nester at the age of 27. He spent a few months bemoaning her absence, luring her back into the house with promises of homemade dinners and game nights, but he eventually had the idea to renovate.

 

By saving up his earnings, being frugal and investing wisely, he had saved up a rather large nest egg. Using these funds, he purchased the brownstone next door, and combined them. By bringing down the wall between the two, he created a wide open space for a coffee and tea shop to flourish. He had loved reading and coffee since his early teens, and his friends Jasper and Monty loved their culinary creations, so he handled the beverages, and they enjoyed their freedom in the kitchen. He kept the atmosphere as warm as possible, wanting to preserve the homey feel.

 

He stained the moldings espresso brown, painted the walls a mixture of dark reds and creme, and lined the walls with books. He even separated the books by genre and alphabetized them by author, double-checking their order weekly. He had hundreds of books, with a special nook tucked in the corner surrounded by his personal favorites. He kept a selection of staff-recommended books and magazines, with explanations of why each employee picked theirs.

 

The first year after the renovation, he slept on a lone mattress upstairs, not having money left over even for drywall. He ate out of the café’s kitchen and bathed at the YMCA down the street, but he would still occasionally give the especially exhausted college students or needy customer a drink and a sandwich on the house. Within a few years, the neighborhood filled with young trendy professionals and college students. He became an established figure in the Washington food scene and earned enough money to transform the upstairs into his own bonafide bachelor pad. Satisfied women leaving through the side door of the café were not a foreign sight.

 

He rolled his shoulders while pouring himself a mug of coffee, nodding at the few regular customers who were relaxing in their regular spots. He took a deep pull of the Holy Water we call coffee, and smiled in greeting to the blonde woman sitting in front of him, head buried in what looked like a old, torn-up sketchbook.


End file.
